The Reunion
An utterly gripping psychological thriller with a jaw-dropping twist
Samantha Hayes
For Ben, Polly and Lucy,
with all my love
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Samantha’s Email Sign-Up
A Letter from Samantha
Acknowledgements
Prologue
August 1996
‘It’s not your fault.’
That’s what the police officer told me as I sat shaking under a blanket. ‘Little girls go missing,’ she said, as if it happened every day. I felt as though I was underwater – her words fizzy bubbles, popped one by one by my mother’s piercing screams.
I’d lost my little sister.
‘Mrs Lucas,’ she said. ‘We need you to keep calm…’
The rest of the officer’s words floated, unheard, between me and my panicking mother as the horror of not having little Lenni in the kitchen hacking up chunks of crumbly cake or sloshing milk from the carton settled between us.
Of course it was my fault.
They asked me what she was wearing but my mind was on fire, wouldn’t work. Then my younger brother, Jason, came in, tripping on the step, wide-eyed, grabbing the door frame, panting. He looked around – his gaze a slow swirl of realisation. Everything was in slow motion.
‘Is she back?’ His hair was the colour of tandoori spice as the curls brushed his tanned cheeks.
I shook my head, then tried to focus. I knew what I wanted to say, but it wouldn’t come out… a swimsuit, plastic beach shoes… My teeth clamped together. The gritty sand between my toes felt like rocks. ‘Or maybe a dress…’ I heard myself saying. The lightness of that perfect summer’s day – a day when things should have been special for Nick and me – had transformed into a crumpled photograph of horrific possibilities.
‘No, she’s not back yet,’ the police officer told Jason. One of the two entrenched in our kitchen, she was young, kind and patient. Their uniforms made everything seem so badly serious.
‘Yet?’ My mother stopped crying, scoring her nails into the table top. Her face was ferocious, splitting at the seams in a way I’d never seen before.
‘I’m sure we’ll find her very soon,’ the officer said, as if we were discussing the chance of rain later. ‘Most are just runaways or get a bit lost.’
‘She’s only thirteen,’ Jason said. ‘But she acts much younger,’ he added for some reason. He glanced at me, swallowing several times. I stared at my feet.
The officer spoke into her radio, turning away from us as the crackled message fed back.
Think, think, think…
‘Please, Claire, please? Pretty please with cherries on top and fairy dust and icing sugar from angels’ wings?’ Lenni’s feet had scuffed the hot sand. She was so impatient. So determined to be independent.
I laughed. She seemed tiny with the ocean behind her. Her hair was ratty, dripping and dark from the salty water, not the usual flyaway red-gold. She jumped about in the one-piece bathing suit I’d lent her – sloppy at the legs and loose at the shoulders because she insisted on wearing a grown-up swimsuit. She hated those stupid ones for younger kids that Mum always bought. Her protests would be terminated with a pout – a delicious little-sister pout that I couldn’t resist.
Lenni hadn’t matured much since she was eight.
‘I’ll be quick. Lightning quick. So quick I’ll be back before I’ve even gone.’
‘Then you must have been and come back already, Lenni, so sit down and wait for the others to finish their swim. We can all go and get ice cream then.’
She jumped and stamped and went red with rage.
‘Lenni, you’re thirteen. Stop it.’
‘Exactly. So let me go and get ice cream.’
‘You know the rules. Mum says not to let you out of my sight.’
‘Mum won’t know.’
Poor Lenni. The baby of our family. The one Mum and Dad protected the most out of the three of us. She was driven to school every morning instead of taking the bus. She wasn’t allowed into town on a Saturday to pick her way through racks of cheap earrings and nail varnish with the other girls. She wore flat shoes, all her skirts were below the knee and she’d never held hands with a boy. Accident-prone and without fear, Lenni had already got herself into enough scrapes to make our parents constantly concerned. Over the years, their anxiety spiked as Lenni’s trusting and innocent nature became her vulnerability. Dad said she was easy prey. The kids at school joked she was simple.
I sighed. ‘You promise you’ll be quick as a fox?’
Lenni’s face broke like a sunrise as a wave crashed and spilt around her ankles. I jumped up and we dragged the trampled-on beach towels and discarded clothes above the tideline. The air was humid and salty; the water cool and dangerous. We’d all dived straight in when we arrived.
‘Here’s a pound,’ I
said, pulling money from my purse. Lenni’s eyes lit up. ‘Go straight along the beach, up to the road and use the zebra crossing—’
‘But that way takes forever,’ Lenni whined. She pulled on her shorts and wiggled her feet into her rubber beach sandals. The denim darkened at the hips where the water seeped through.
‘Not the cliff path. Mum would have a fit.’
She pulled a face. ‘OK.’ She took the money and pushed it into her pocket. ‘Hate you, sis.’ She grinned cheekily over her bony shoulder.
‘Hate you too, Len-monster,’ and I lunged for a tickle, but she darted off down the beach, leaving a trail of footprints in the sand.
* * *
The police officer was talking to me, but I couldn’t understand what she was saying. She was holding a notepad.
‘Sorry…’ It was an apology more than a question.
‘I asked you who Lenni’s friends are.’
I touched the side of my head, squinting as the room went blurry. Truth was, Lenni didn’t really have any friends. The kids in her class were mean to her and she never had anyone back to play. ‘Oh God…’ I buried my face in my hands, hardly able to stand what I’d done. If I hadn’t gone back into the sea, if only I’d watched her go down the beach, tracked her veering off inland to where the sandbank rose, dotted with gorse and marram grass, separating the dunes from the row of shops, counted down the minutes until I saw her again, perhaps I’d have somehow kept her safe.
But Nick had called out to me. He’d dived head first into the waves, beckoning me with his whole body – his tanned shoulders, his lean back, his long legs. He broke down my name into streamer-like syllables when he resurfaced.
Clai-aire…
It was my last try for Nick, part of the reason I’d got us all together that day for one final burst of fun before we went off to different universities and colleges where he would surely find someone else. It was as though I was still underwater with him. Suspended. Nothing real.
It had been three hours.
Three hours since I’d said Hate you too, Len-monster.
Three hours since the tide washed away her footprints.
Chapter One
June 2017
Claire looked up from her work. She hadn’t noticed them come in.
‘How about this one?’ the man said. A couple were browsing the wall display.
Had he just called her Eleanor?
She put down her pen, watching them for a moment, focusing on the woman, giving her a slow look up and down.
‘Morning…’ Claire came out from behind her desk. They were in their late thirties, professional-looking, browsing the half-million-pound and above properties. ‘How may I help you?’
The man turned, giving a polite smile. ‘We’d like some more details on this one, please.’ He pointed to a property.
‘And this one too,’ the woman added, smiling.
Claire hesitated before replying. Wondering, extrapolating, working out the age. Had she misheard the name? ‘Are you looking for an older place?’ she asked. ‘Or would you consider something new as well?’
‘Something with character,’ the man replied. She decided to give them the details for Cliff Lodge anyway. On the surface it seemed old, with its reclaimed bricks and gnarled timberwork. The builder had done a great job, but buyers were generally savvy. They’d soon realise it was overpriced.
‘This one has amazing views,’ Claire told them, slipping the details inside a glossy brochure. ‘You get the feel of an older property but with all the benefits of a new build. It scores top on energy ratings, has a media control panel for the entire house, underfloor heating, state-of-the-art security…’
‘It looks interesting,’ the woman said, glancing at her partner. ‘Though we really were set on something original.’ She smiled. Her hair was light brown, short and highlighted with flecks of red. Her skin was pale, slightly sun-kissed, and her height, Claire guessed, would be about right. Her breathing quickened.
‘Well, take it anyway,’ she said, handing over the brochures. She’d lost count of how many clients with fixed criteria would, three months later, be moving into somewhere entirely different.
‘I can make a few calls now to arrange some viewings if you like.’ She didn’t usually go for the hard sell, but it had been a lean month, though she also wondered if it was her interest in the woman making her pushy. ‘Would you like a coffee?’
The couple looked at each other and nodded, so Claire went into the back to pour the drinks. ‘Have you a property to sell?’ she asked, returning.
‘Our London place is sold. We’re renting down here,’ the man replied, turning the brochure pages.
Claire’s heart fluttered. With only ten days left in the month, she could do with a decent sale. ‘I’m Claire, by the way,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘Claire Rodway.’
They both smiled. ‘I’m Gary and this is my wife, Eleanor.’ Claire couldn’t help gripping the woman’s hand for a moment too long.
* * *
An hour and a half later they’d viewed two empty properties. Cliff Lodge, followed by what Claire thought would be the perfect property, not far from Rock. She’d questioned Eleanor about her past as much as she could, but it turned out she’d lived in Kent and London all her life. As they stood outside the last house, gazing back at the façade, Claire’s phone buzzed in her pocket.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, stepping aside. She overheard Gary and Eleanor whispering about furniture, the piano, kids’ bedrooms and where they could put a vegetable plot. It sounded promising.
‘Hello, Claire Rodway speaking.’ There was silence on the line apart from background noise that either sounded like traffic or the tide rushing in. ‘Hello? Who is this?’
The line went dead.
Claire stared at the screen. It was the second time that day – and each call had come up as number withheld. She shrugged and went back to the couple. ‘So, what do you think?’
‘It’s certainly got potential,’ Eleanor said. ‘I’d just hoped for more of a project. Something I can put my mark on.’ The couple nodded at each other, joining hands.
‘We were wondering if you have any barns to convert or old farmhouses with potential, that sort of thing?’ her partner said.
Claire stifled a sigh. ‘Possibly,’ she said in a way that would make them believe there was hope, even though she knew they didn’t have anything like that on their books. ‘I’ll check the files and give you a call.’
If she’d known then what she found out later, she could have taken them straight to the perfect property and probably had an offer on the table by close of business.
Chapter Two
‘Mum, Dad, it’s me…’ Claire called from the back hall, letting herself in. She’d stopped by at her parents’ farm next door to her own house to pick up the dress her mum had altered for Amy. There was no reply, so she went straight into the large flagstoned kitchen.
She stopped suddenly.
‘Mum, what’s wrong?’ She glanced between her parents.
Her father was sitting at the kitchen table with the newspaper open in front of him but obviously not reading it. His glasses were lying beside him, his eyes looking as though they’d been glued, unfocused, to the same page for the last ten minutes. Her mother was making a point of banging pots and pans as she prepared their evening meal.
‘Is anyone going to speak?’ Whatever was going on, Claire didn’t think it seemed fair on her father under the circumstances.
‘Everything’s fine, darling,’ Shona said, glancing up. She wore a tight expression, one that gave her an instant facelift. But instead of making her appear younger – although Claire hoped she looked that good when she reached seventy-one – it made her seem weary, as though she’d had enough.
‘Thanks for altering the dress,’ Claire said, catching sight of it on the chair. ‘Amy will love it. She has a party at the weekend and—’
‘Your mother wants to split up the far
m and sell it off to rich people from London, so they can bugger about with it and convert it into bloody holiday lets.’
Claire stared at her father. Surely he was confused again.
‘And considering everything, is that not a sensible idea, Patrick?’ Shona held a large knife inside a tea towel, her long fingers gripped around it. Only her mother could make drying up seem elegant.
‘Mum, is this true?’ Claire felt her heart grinding, as if trying to slow the inevitable. Neither of her parents answered directly.
‘Oh, Patrick,’ Shona said through a sigh. She went to her husband and clasped his shoulders, pulling him close to her chest. She kissed him on the head. ‘We’ve talked about this already. Don’t you remember? You said it was a good idea.’ She returned to the worktop and snipped at a bunch of parsley growing in a pot on the windowsill. A strand of hair fell in front of her eyes like a grey brushstroke on a painting. Again, Claire noticed how tired she looked.
The Reunion: An utterly gripping psychological thriller with a jaw-dropping twist Page 1
